


The Wideness of the World

by TheBreakfastGenie



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate History, F/M, Gen, Hamilton survives the duel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-18 18:38:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5938894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBreakfastGenie/pseuds/TheBreakfastGenie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Aaron Burr?”<br/>“Don’t worry about it, sir, we’re sending him away—”<br/>“Send him in.” </p><p>Alternate history where Hamilton is wounded but survives the duel. Shortly afterward, Burr comes to see him while he's recovering. They have a lot to talk about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Visit

**Author's Note:**

> According to Joseph Ellis's Founding Brothers, it's likely that Burr's intention was to wound Hamilton non-fatally. Assuming that's true, I've imagined a world where Burr was successful and Hamilton didn't sustain a bullet wound that did a crazy unlikely amount of damage. This fic was also helped into existence in no small part by the fact that I'm procrastinating on my angsty modern AU. 
> 
> I have some ideas for more stories within this universe, there's definitely more to be done with Burr and I really want to do one with Angelica, so please let me know if that's something you're interested in!

Somewhere in his house, something was happening. Alexander could hear voices and hurried footsteps and, perhaps the slamming of a door. Even this minor commotion was more noise than Alexander had heard in days, and he yearned to hear more of it. By this time the drop of a spoon in the kitchen would have appealed to his interests, so complete was his recent deprivation of stimulation. He had strategized battles and mastered languages and written financial systems, yet how Eliza had managed to keep the house silent with seven children living in it was quite beyond his reasoning. 

Despite straining his neck as far as he could manage, Alexander could see nothing of the hallway, though the door stood slightly ajar. He moved to incline himself a few degrees and found himself suddenly on the receiving end of a cold glare from a warm-hearted woman. 

“You’ll stay where you are,” Eliza said. 

“I have been flat for four days. Surely, my Betsey, the doctor would not continue to prohibit me the privilege of a minute elevation?” 

“Forget the doctor,” she said, ignoring the endearment. “Your wife forbids it.” 

“Surely my wife could be persuaded otherwise?” Alexander requested meekly.

Only his wife could so nearly reduce him to begging. 

“Your wife remembers all too well how close she was to becoming your widow.” 

Alexander sighed, defeated. There was no argument to be made against that. Eliza would hold it against him for the remainder of their earthly years, and until the day he did die he would be unable to deny her anything. Not that he had been in much of a position to do so before. 

Eliza had risen from her chair and now approached the bed. 

“I suppose,” she said, her voice softer than it had been before, “one extra cushion could not do you further harm.” 

She placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. 

“I will go and ask one of the servants to fetch one.” 

Alexander caught her hand before she could step away. 

“I am surprised that you are not more angry with me,” he said. 

For a moment he thought her expression would soften further, but when wife’s eyes met husband’s they had hardened instead. 

“You were not the one who issued the challenge,” she said tightly, and though she concealed the emotion from her voice it was clear to him with whom the largest share of her anger lay. 

It occurred to him to perhaps his own feelings should parallel Eliza’s. It also occurred to him, not for the first time, that they did not. 

Eliza moved away from him now, Alexander releasing her hand as an afterthought when he felt her tug against him. When she opened the door fully in order to leave Alexander was made aware that the excitement from a few minutes earlier had not fully subsided. 

The opening of the door must have made enough noise, even above the commotion, to alert the servants that Mrs. Hamilton was in need of something, because one of them appeared without Eliza even calling for her. From his depressingly horizontal position Alexander could see only her feet, but he could hear the conversation clearly enough. 

“Could you fetch me an extra cushion for Mr. Hamilton?” 

“Of course, ma’am,” the girl’s voice replied, followed immediately by her footsteps as she rushed to do as Eliza had asked. Alexander had noticed since he’d been conscious that there was not a member of the house who would deny Eliza any request, or even hesitate to fulfill it. The whole of the Grange seemed to have formed a protective ring around its mistress and it made his heart a little heavy to know that he was the reason for it. 

“It was Hannah, this time,” Eliza said, returning to her chair. 

At other times when Eliza had called for a servant Alexander had entertained himself by attempting to guess which one had answered the call by the footsteps and the sound of the voice. This time he had focused instead on trying to understand the noise that continued to emanate from the front of the house, but he did not speak of this to Eliza.

Hannah returned but a few minutes later, bearing a pillow and a tense expression. At least, Alexander believed that it was a tense expression. It was possible that his bored mind was playing tricks on him.

Eliza rose to meet Hannah at the door, taking the pillow from the girl’s hands and bringing it to Alexander’s bed. She rearranged his bedclothes around the addition so that he did indeed gain a few of his desired inches. It was not nearly an upright position—Alexander wondered how many days it would be before he was allowed to sit, but dared not ask—but it afforded him the desired view of the hallway.

“Thank you, Hannah,” Eliza said. 

“Of course, ma’am,” the girl replied. “Does Mr. Hamilton need anything else?” 

The question, of course, was directed at Eliza, but seeing as it was about him, Alexander took it upon himself to answer it. 

“I’d like to know the reason for this ruckus that seems to have overtaken the Grange today,” he said. 

He thought perhaps Eliza would object, but when he looked at her he found she was looking at Hannah. 

“I’m curious myself,” Eliza admitted. “It has been somewhat lively this past quarter-hour or so.” 

Alexander shouldn’t have been surprised. Eliza had to be nearly as bored as he was, passing so many hours watching over him from that chair, though at least she had her small entertainments, and could get up for meals or to see the children. 

“Someone came to see you,” Hannah said apologetically, and now Alexander was certain that his mind had been sound in its earlier assessment because the girl’s face had taken on a decidedly pale, distressed expression. “I’m sorry if it’s disturbed Mr. Hamilton’s rest.” 

“I’m not,” Alexander muttered, and that did earn him a reproachful look from Eliza. 

“We’ve told him you are unwell, but he’s proving himself quite stubborn.” 

“Is it Mr. Pendleton?” he asked.

His second, suffering, it seemed, from an affliction of guilt over Alexander’s injury, had already been turned away from the house twice, had met with Eliza in the front room once, and had been back to see Alexander on one occasion for two or three minutes, before Eliza determined the meeting disadvantageous to his recovery. 

“No,” Hannah said. “It is not Mr. Pendleton.”

“Mr. Morris, then?” 

“No,” said Hannah again. “It’s, well, sir, the Vice-President is here to see you.” 

“Aaron Burr?” 

_No, the other Vice-President of the United States,_ he nearly said in response, until he realized the question had come from his own mouth. 

Poor Hannah now looked entirely uncomfortable. 

“Don’t worry about it, sir, we’re sending him away—”

Alexander raised a hand to quiet her. 

“Send him in.”

* * *

 

The minutes until Burr arrived were passed in stony silence, with Eliza, back in her chair, refusing to meet Alexander’s gaze. He still half-expected her to intervene and stop the meeting, but so far she had done nothing. He considered speaking to her, but what explanation could he offer her? He didn’t even have one for himself. 

The door opened, then, and there he stood, the shadow of Alexander’s would-be assassin cast over his sickbed.

He turned to Eliza first. 

“Hello, Mrs. Hamilton,” he said.

“Colonel Burr,” she said coldly, rising from her chair. She brushed past Burr without another word and without a glance back either for him or for her husband, closing the door behind her. 

As the two men stared at each, Burr standing, Alexander still barely elevated against his pillows, the tension in the room seemed to recall their last meeting. 

“I would like to offer my consolations, Mr. Vice-President,” Alexander said finally. “I’m sorry that you did not achieve your desired ends at Weehawken.” 

“It was not my intention to kill you, Alexander.” 

“My current physical condition suggests otherwise.” 

Alexander could not deny that Burr’s words came as a surprise, but there was nothing forcing him to admit it. 

“I sought satisfaction on the dueling ground, yes, but I aimed to wound, not to kill.” 

“I aimed at the sky.” 

“I know.” 

Burr’s gaze fell to the ground. 

There had been, or so Alexander understood from his aborted visit with Pendleton, some disagreement among the seconds as to whether Alexander had even fired his weapon before Burr’s bullet hit him. Alexander had been furiously ordering Nathaniel to inform everybody who had questioned it that he had, in fact, deliberately discharged his pistol, when Eliza had decided the conversation was exciting him too much and removed Pendleton from the room. 

“I saw you,” Burr admitted, “but it was too late.” 

The conversation lagged as Burr continued to stare at the floor. Hamilton, for his part, studied Burr, until at last he broke the silence. 

“Come over here and see if you can’t prop me up a bit further,” Alexander said.

“Will your wife approve of such an action?”Burr asked, raising his eyes to meet Hamilton’s once again. 

“My wife is not here,” he said. 

Burr hesitated, but at last went to Hamilton’s bedside. He rearranged the pillows to the best of his ability. Alexander was satisfied with the result, which left his head, at least, quite near to upright. 

Burr lingered for a moment, as if unsure if his work with the pillows had been satisfactory, but must have reached the conclusion that it was, for he sat himself in the chair Eliza had left vacant. 

“It occurred to me,” Burr said thoughtfully, “only after I had gone home that your son died at Weehawken.” 

Alexander inhaled sharply. Burr looked uncertain, but he continued. 

“In the moment before I pulled the trigger, I thought of my daughter. Did you…?”

“Yes,” Alexander breathed.

Burr nodded. 

Alexander had thought of Philip often in the time since he’d awoken at home and regained enough faculties to understand what had happened to him. His stomach twisted with guilt each time he thought that he had survived what Philip had not. _Would that Eacker had had Burr’s aim_ , Alexander had often pleaded. Now, it seemed, what he really should have wished was for Eacker to have had Burr’s judgment. 

Had he killed Burr, he realized, Theodosia would have been an orphan. Alexander knew what it was to be an orphan. As, he remembered suddenly, did Burr. 

“Next time you see your daughter, give her my regards.” 

Burr seemed surprised, but he nodded his assent.

“After we left Weehawken,” Alexander said, “what did you do?” 

“I got a drink,” Burr paused, apparently considering his next words. “I tried approach you, after the duel—”

“After you shot me, you mean,” Alexander interjected. Burr looked weary. 

“Yes. I tried to approach you, to see what condition you were in, but they wouldn’t let me.”

“I remember seeing you reach towards me. I thought perhaps I had dreamed it.”

“You did not.” 

“I remember everything perfectly, up until being shot. After…The first two days or so remain unclear. I doubt if I will ever remember them fully.” 

“You were quite weak, I imagine,” Burr said awkwardly.

The awkwardness had been Alexander’s goal. 

“There was some uncertainty, at first, whether I was going to live,” he said. “But I did not survive a fever at twelve, a hurricane at seventeen, and a war at twenty-five to be killed by your bullet at forty-seven.” 

“You do seem to be recovering,” Burr noted. 

“That seems to be the case at this time, though whether I recover fully remains to be seen.” 

Hamilton searched Burr’s face for a glint of guilt, but he could not see him well enough from his limited angle.

“You did warn me, once,” he said, “that I would be shot one day, could I not learn to hold my tongue.”

“You have proven my warning to be apt,” said Burr, sounding, in Alexander’s opinion, a bit too smug for the man who had shot him.

“You may not claim yourself a prophet when it was yourself who fulfilled your prophecy,” Alexander remarked, annoyance creeping into his voice. 

“Though,” he said after thinking for a moment, “there are worse ways to terminate one’s earthly existence. There is honor in a duel.” 

The words were not his but rather an echo of what had been whispered to him on a cold day in a wood outside Philadelphia when, suddenly fearful, he had asked his closest friend, for whom he served as second, _And if you should lose?_ His comrade had answered, _There are worse ways to die, my Alexander. There is honor in a duel._

Burr laughed softly.

“Here you are, confined to your bed by a gunshot wound, and still you talk about your honor.” 

Hamilton had been of half a mind to be offended by the laugh, but now he offered a slight smile in return. 

“It seems to me, Burr,” he said, “that the world stubbornly insists on being wide enough to hold the both of us. I propose then, that we reside in it as something other than enemies, if we cannot do so as friends.”

“I don’t know if your wife will forgive me your bullet wound,” Burr said. 

“I have not said that I forgive you myself,” Alexander pointed out. “Only that I do not wish to duel again.” 

“Nor do I,” said Burr after a moment, but Alexander could have sworn he looked disappointed.

“It is settled, then,” Hamilton said. 

“The challenge, after all, was satisfied,” Burr replied. 

“Look at the two of us,” Hamilton joked. “Washington would be proud.”

“I don’t know how proud he would be that you got yourself shot,” Burr said dryly. 

“Or how proud he would be that you shot me,” Alexander retorted. He paused. “I suppose neither of us is going to be President now.” 

“Perhaps Jefferson will die, and I will serve a few months,” Burr offered with a smile. 

“There is plenty of unclaimed land out west,” Alexander suggested. “Perhaps we could form our own nation.” 

“Not a nation,” Burr laughed, “an empire. With the two of us on the throne!” 

Alexander was still avoiding laughter and the pain that accompanied it, but he offered an appreciative chuckle. 

It was Hamilton, again, who broke the awkward silence that had settled over the two men in the wake of the joke. 

“Your visit created quite a stir at my house today, Aaron.” 

The use of the first name, Alexander noticed, had the intended unsettling effect on the man.

“I do think there were some residents of the Grange convinced you were here to finish me off.”

“Yet you were not among them.” 

“No, I felt it would be uncharacteristic of you to shoot me for a second time. Though it was uncharacteristic for you to shoot me the first time, so perhaps I was too trusting.” 

Alexander paused. 

“I don’t suppose you’re going to apologize?” he asked. 

He crafted his words in such a way as to be deliberately unclear whether he sought an apology for the disruption Burr had brought to his household or for the other, more serious matter. 

“Seeing as this whole business came about because you refused an apology to me,” Burr said, smirking lightly, “it only seems appropriate to refuse one to you now.” 

“Only fair, I suppose,” Alexander sighed.

Burr rose to his feet. 

“I am glad that I did not kill you, Alexander,” he said kindly. 

“There are moments, Aaron, when I think perhaps I wish you had.” 

For a moment, both men froze, Hamilton’s confession hanging heavy between them. He had not meant to say it, and internally he was panicking, fearing how Burr would react, or if he would tell anyone. Burr, however, said nothing, only met Alexander’s gaze for a moment before he continued on his way. Still, that moment was enough for Alexander to understand that Burr knew it to be the truth. 

As the door swung shut behind Burr, Alexander heard footsteps, first Burr’s alone, then joined by one of the servants. Their conversation drifted into his room. Hannah’s hushed voice he could not understand, but Burr spoke more clearly. 

“Thank you, Hannah, but I’ll show myself out, and you can tell Mrs. Hamilton she needn’t worry about me shooting her husband a second time.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Hamilton's joke about creating an empire out west is a reference to something Burr totally may have tried to do in the later part of his life post-duel.
> 
> \- idk where exactly Hamilton's bullet wound is in this version of events. Somewhere painful but survivable, kay?
> 
> -1755 or 1757, Hamilton was definitely 25 at some point during the war. Just go with it.
> 
> -the hell was that Hamilton said at the end?? what's going on there?? maybe if you really want to know I'll write another chapter about it.
> 
> I can be found on tumblr at thebreakfastgenie, the same as here. I'm always happy to talk.


	2. The Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am making an effort not to be too angry with you. For Eliza’s sake.”  
> “What a herculean effort that must be.”  
> “It is when you nearly leave my sister alone over some ridiculous dispute of honor with Burr, of all people!” 
> 
> Angelica gives Alexander a piece of her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's still Angelica Schuyler Church's birthday in half of the United States. That's close enough, right? This chapter is a little shorter than the last one, but hopefully the next one will make up for it. Burr's back next time and I'm very excited about that chapter, but it's going to take some work so I ask for your patience. You may see there is now a number of chapters. That is discussed in the endnotes. Enjoy! Feedback is greatly appreciated.

Alexander opened his eyes slowly, assaulted by the harshness of the light. So it was daytime, then. Since being shot and confined to his bed he’d developed an unfortunate habit of falling asleep for hours at a time with no regard for day or night. It frustrated him, but whenever he expressed as much to Eliza she’d wave him off with a reminder that he needed his rest. 

When his eyes were somewhat adjusted to the light he looked to the chair from which Eliza kept her vigilant watch, expecting that, since it was light, she would be reading and hoping that he could persuade her to do so out loud. Instead, he found another woman in his wife’s place. 

“Angelica.” 

“Alexander.” She smiled at him, but he found hunger rather than warmth in the expression. “You’re awake.” 

“What time is it?” he asked. He found that his mouth felt dry.

“Mid-afternoon,” Angelica said.

“I’m still not allowed to know the hour, I see,” he complained. Angelica said nothing but continued smiling. Damn her. 

“Where’s Eliza?” 

“With the children,” she answered. “They needed to see her. William asked me this morning if they were orphans now.” 

Angelica’s words struck him as little could. Indeed, he thought they might have hurt more than the bullet had. He doubted Angelica could possibly know this, but he had sworn to himself on the day Philip was born that his children would never know what it was to be orphaned. He wondered absently if perhaps Burr had sworn the same. 

“She could have brought them,” Alexander said, aiming for mild petulance and hitting it perfectly. 

“They would have woken you,” Angelica said. 

“Perhaps I needed waking,” Alexander muttered.

He didn’t like that Eliza never woke him when he slept in the middle of the day. 

“Perhaps you needed better judgment, but you managed to survive without that, however narrowly,” Angelica retorted. 

Alexander sighed.

“I have been preparing myself these several days for whenever I would finally receive the lashing of your tongue.” 

Angelica’s stance seemed to retreat slightly, but her perch in Eliza’s chair remained imposing. 

“I am making an effort not to be too angry with you. For Eliza’s sake.” 

“What a herculean effort that must be,” Alexander replied.

“It is when you nearly leave my sister alone over some ridiculous dispute of honor with Burr, of all people!” Angelica fired back. 

“It was not my challenge,” Alexander said, but he knew the answer was weak. 

“I know that Eliza affords you some forgiveness for that reason, but this is one of many ways in which I am unlike my dear sister.” 

He knew there was no explanation for his actions that Angelica would accept, but still he tried to explain himself. 

“Once the challenge was issued I could not deny it with any honor.” 

“Damn your honor and your courage both, if they would deprive us of you in an untimely manner!” Angelica cried, her anger suddenly bordering on emotion. 

Alexander could not answer her, both because he did not have a suitable response and because it had become painful to do so. The dryness in his mouth had not abated and had by now reached his throat as well. He coughed slightly. 

“Would you like some water?” Angelica asked, apparently neither angry nor distressed enough to leave him to his suffering. 

“Yes,” he requested. He could hear the raspiness of his own voice and the sound of it bothered him. He wanted desperately to believe that, even confined to his bed as he was, he still retained at least one skill, yet it seemed even oratory had abandoned him. 

Angelica rose silently, taking a moment to pick up the mug that was resting on the side table. When she reached his bedside she bent to hold the mug to his lips. He glared up at her with all the fierceness that had presently left his voice. 

“I can drink myself,” he said. 

“Not if you don’t sit up, you can’t,” Angelica retorted. 

She easily matched his glare with her own, just as they had first matched wits what now seemed like a lifetime ago. Angelica was, perhaps, more his equal than anyone Alexander had ever met, and he knew her will to be more than capable of overpowering his.

Yet after a moment Angelica sighed. 

“Fine,” she relinquished. “But on your own head be it if Eliza returns and discovers you disobeying.” 

Alexander pushed himself up eagerly. Perhaps _too_ eagerly, he reflected as a jab of pain flooded his body, originating at the wound. He hurried to control his expression. 

He looked back to Angelica. She was smirking. Apparently his endeavor to hide the pain had not succeeded as planned. 

“On your own head be it if you die as well,” Angelica muttered. 

“I thought you didn’t want me dead,” Alexander teased, reaching his hands out for the mug.

“I’ve said no such thing,” she answered, placing the mug in his outstretched hands. 

Alexander wanted to continue the exchange, but, his dry throat reminded him, he wanted water more. The water was lukewarm and a few particles of dust had accumulated on the top in the hours it had been sitting, but he sighed at the first sip. He’d drunk worse in the army, after all. 

He paused after a few gulps to let the water settle in his stomach. He wasn't lying when he complained to Eliza that he could manage food and water, but his body still protested if he took in much of anything too quickly. Alexander held the mug out to Angelica, who took it and returned it to the side table without a word.

Alexander expected her to sit down once again, but instead she turned to face him with a pointed stare and pursed lips. He stared back defiantly. 

“I allowed, against both my better judgment and the wishes of my sister, you to sit up in order to drink. I did not give you permission to continue doing so.”

“I’ll take some more water, then,” Alexander said petulantly. Angelica shook her head. 

“You've had what you should for the moment, I think.” 

With each day that he was confined to the bed Alexander was growing more and more frustrated with his circumstances. He knew Eliza was looking out for his health, but as his body healed his mind was dying from lack of stimulation. 

“I’m not so close to death as you and Eliza believe! I can be permitted to sit, and to write—” He glanced at Angelica’s face. “…to read,” he quickly amended, “and to see my own children!” 

“You may not be so close to death now,” she said fiercely, “but it has not been many days since you were.” 

“It seems to me, dearest Angelica, that if, as you claim, you’re not invested in my survival, it shouldn’t be of any concern to you how much water I drink or what position I’m in, or even how close my most recent brush with death took me,” Alexander said. 

He knew he was taking a risk, especially with the last part, but he was both angry and bored, far from an ideal combination in any man, much less one of his disposition.

“I’m looking after you for Eliza’s sake," she reminded him. 

Over the years Angelica had done many things for Eliza's sake. She had always looked after Eliza, sometimes better than he had. Too often better than he had. 

Alexander sighed, but he slid himself gently down the bed until his head was about as inclined as it had been before. Angelica smiled and finally returned to her seat. 

“You did say you were trying not to be too angry with me,” he pointed out. “For Eliza’s sake.”

“For Eliza’s sake,” she repeated. “And because we almost lost you,” she added after a moment, her voice going quieter. 

Alexander attempted to veil his response behind a mask of stoicism, but he knew Angelica could see the emotion register in his eyes. Angelica had, from the the day he met her, always had an uncanny ability to see right through him. Sometimes it was wonderful. Sometimes, like now, it was terrifying.

“I am glad you’re alive, Alexander,” Angelica said softly, more softly than he’d heard her speak to him in years. “I pray you do not forget how lucky you are that it is so.” 

“I don’t," he whispered, the hoarseness making a sudden return to his voice, despite the water. 

Angelica offered no contradiction, but Alexander knew she could sense that something was not entirely right within him. He could hide things from Eliza; Angelica had always been able to read him like a book. They were so alike, Angelica and Alexander. So alike that, without words, he knew he could trust her not to say a word to Eliza. 

“Did you see Burr yesterday?” Alexander asked. 

Angelica shook her head. He thought she looked almost disappointed. 

“I missed him. I would have liked to tell him exactly what my opinion is of the grievous injury he so recently inflicted upon you.” 

Angelica was definitely disappointed.

“I thought you blamed me for my grievous wound, as you described it,” Alexander said, half-smirking as he spoke. 

“My blaming Burr does not require me to blame you any less,” Angelica answered sternly. “There is blame enough in my heart for both the man who shot my sister’s husband and the fool who got himself shot.” 

“Is that what I will be known as to you for the remainder of my life? The fool who got himself shot?”he asked. 

“Would you prefer the fool who let the man who shot him into his bedroom?” 

“I’m surprised Eliza allowed it,” he admitted. “I was surprised she even permitted him entry into the Grange.”

“She knew there was no stopping you,” Angelica said, “but she was furious with him for coming here.” 

“I’m glad he did,” Alexander said. 

“I know you are, and she knows it too, but if you say so in front of her I’ll kill you myself,” Angelica warned.

“I might believe you, dear sister, if you hadn’t already admitted that you’re glad I’m alive,” Alexander teased. 

The look he received in response told him that he was dancing dangerously close to the line and warned him not to cross it. 

Before Alexander could test his luck by saying anything else, they were interrupted by the door swinging open. It was Eliza, with little Phil perched on her hip. 

“He’s awake,” Angelica reported cheerfully, gesturing to Alexander. He scowled. 

“She can see that for herself, Angelica,” he grumbled. 

“And acting his usual self, as you can see!” Angelica added gleefully. 

Alexander nearly complained again, but Eliza smiled, and that was too rare and beautiful a sight to begrudge Angelica for insulting him in order to draw it out. 

“How are the children?” Alexander asked. 

Eliza’s smile grew even brighter. 

“Much better, now. John told the little ones that you were dead and Eliza didn’t believe him but Phil was upset, so I brought him to see for himself that his father is perfectly alive.” 

Eliza nudged Philip as she spoke. He hadn’t yet seemed to notice Alexander. 

“Bring him closer,” Alexander said.

Eliza complied, carrying their youngest child past Angelica and holding him at his father’s bedside. 

“You see, Phil? Your father isn’t dead,” Alexander said gently. “Just a bit sick, is all, but I’ll be alright. 

Philip only glared at him before turning to bury his head in Eliza’s shoulder. Alexander laughed. 

“This is a stubborn one. I don't think I’ll be easily forgiven.” 

“I wonder from which parent he inherited that trait,” Angelica remarked dryly. 

“As her sister, Angelica, you should know that my wife is not at all lacking in stubbornness herself,” Alexander replied. 

That earned him a snort of laughter from Angelica, who slowly rose from the chair. 

“If you don’t mind, Eliza, I have other matters to attend to, and I think perhaps your husband would like some time alone with you and your child.”

“You’re dismissed, Angelica. Thank you for looking after him,” Eliza answered, smiling. 

“I was merely fulfilling my sisterly duty,” Angelica said, making her way to the door. 

Eliza turned to face Alexander, beaming as Philip showed his face as well. Before she left, Angelica tossed him a look over Eliza’s head as if to say _don’t forget what I told you_. Alexander acknowledged her with the ghost of a nod, his face briefly turning serious, before he broke into a wide, teasing smile for his son.

“Come, Philip, don’t you have anything to say to your long-lost father?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm assuming if you've read this far you aren't sick of this story yet, which means, if you're anything like me as a reader, you're probably thinking "only four chapters??" Fear not! This story is going to be written in installments, of which this is the first and has four chapters. That's all I'm saying about it at this time. 
> 
> I'm always happy to talk, find me on tumblr at thebreakfastgenie, the same as here.


End file.
